


Reach

by biswholocked



Series: JWP 2015 [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Comfort, Community: watsons_woes, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Fear, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4371944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Moriarty, John doesn't waste time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reach

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day eighteen of JWP. The prompt was the include some kind of a game. Stream of consciousness isn't something I write often so this was a fun - and intense - piece to write.

When the laser sights trained on him and Sherlock disappear in the echo of Moriarty’s departure, John wastes no time. His feet carry him to Sherlock, his hands reach out and confiscate the gun (and _god_ the image of Sherlock pressing the thing to his head, uncaring of his own safety), then tucks it into his waistband. Blood roars in his ears and adrenaline pounds through his body as he grips Sherlock’s fingers tightly enough to make the man wince, drags them past the pool and out the doors and onto the empty street beyond. Sherlock is making some kind of protest, _the evidence, John_ , but it’s not far enough, not yet, so John ignores him and keeps going until he can’t feel his heart slamming against his ribcage.

They’re on a main thoroughfare, now. Maybe Sherlock notices the moment John’s legs nearly give out; maybe more of John’s fear is showing than he thinks. But Sherlock stops resisting John’s determination and hails a cab, tells the driver “Baker Street” in a clipped tone. John still hasn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand (is unsure if he _can_ ), but Sherlock says nothing about it, and simply watches John with narrowed eyes as John stares out the window, scanning the roads. He can feel the gaze upon him, in the spot just at the nape of his neck; only the knowledge that it’s Sherlock, who does this always, stops his skin from crawling.

“John--”

“Shut _up_ , Sherlock,” John says through clenched teeth, turning to face Sherlock, to look him in the eyes, for the first time. “Just-- don’t say a word. This isn’t a _game_ anymore, and I don’t want to hear it.” John looks away again. The cabbie, he can tell, is politely pretending he is deaf. (Thank god for British politeness.) The sound of the tyres and engine grow until they fill the void between them, swallowing up anything either of them could even consider saying and leaving their mouths empty.

When the cab pulls to a stop on Baker Street John gets out first, restrains himself from slamming the door, and pays the fare along with a generous tip. Sherlock walks beside him, but leaves a respectable distance between them; their shoulders don’t brush, and John’s gut clenches at the lack of contact but his pride rears at the thought of closing the gap himself. And then they’re at the front door and John fumbles with his keys until finally at last the lock turns and they quietly stumble up the stairs. John’s fingers itch to make tea and so he flicks on the kitchen light and sets the kettle to boil, then pulls out a chair from the table and sits, heavily. His bones ache.

He stares, unblinking, at the array of science equipment that’s drying on the counter but all he sees is Sherlock, eyes wide with fear, Moriarty’s sharp-toothed grin, the arc of the vest of semtex as Sherlock released it from his grip.

“I know.”

John startles and blinks and finds Sherlock looking at him from across the kitchen. He moves closer, until John has to tilt his head to make eye contact; Sherlock’s eyes are steel.

“You said, earlier, it’s not a game anymore. I know.” His voice is calm, but John can hear the strength behind it, can imagine exactly what plans are being made for Moriarty in that brilliant mind.

John nods; Sherlock’s hand comes up to rest upon his shoulder in return.

“Tea?”

“Milk, one sugar.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome! Wrote this in a bit of a rush so if you notice any typos, let me know!


End file.
